Heal Over, Someday
by Sirry-Addict
Summary: Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression, Harry finds he needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just may be able to help. [RLHP]
1. I

**Summary: **Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.

**Author's Note: **This is my one of my first ventures into writing Remus/Harry, so I'd appreciate some feedback on how I'm doing. Just a line or two, maybe a suggestion as to how I can better their characters and interactions? Maybe a bit of plot advice? I'm not adverse to any of it and would value it greatly. :-) Just let me know how I'm doing, and I'll be a very happy woman. Thanks for clicking onto my story, and I hope you enjoy!

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.

**Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer:** angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

Thanks go to Sara for the initial read through. :-D Your comments made me giggle happily.

**Overall Rating:** M, for Mature, just to be safe.

**x**

**Heal Over, Someday**

**I.**

**Prologue**

_The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their name._

Chinese Proverb

**x**

_**1997**_

_"Fuck. You." _

_The words pressed against the back of his teeth with a vengeance, and if Harry weren't here to save this bastard, he'd be in the process of killing him himself, going through steps he'd dreamed about since he was eleven, glaring hatefully back at the millionth person in his life to torment him endlessly. Draco Malfoy had had nothing on Dudley Dursley then, but he'd sure as hell figured out how to take a few steps up since; Harry shoved Malfoy's wand in the teen's general direction and barely noted that Malfoy had to scramble for it. Malfoy was bruised, bloody, his clothes were torn and caked in various forms of grime, and Harry could honestly say that it pleased him in some sick way to know that Malfoy hadn't been having the trip of his life, despite any and all protestations. He turned his ear to the cell door and prayed that Snape was giving them the time they needed—this was their last chance. Voldemort wanted to siege Hogwarts within the fortnight and they had to be prepared. They had to have all of their people; every able body was going to be needed._

_"Later, Potter. What in the fuck inspired you to come traipsing down here yourself? Especially when my father has your death warrant in his pocket, signed by Voldemort, his fucking royal highness,_ himself_?" _

_"Shut_ up, _Malfoy. Shut the fuck up_ now_, before I permanently shut you up!" Harry hissed the command through clenched teeth, ear turned to the cell door, nearly pressed against it, every sense he had stretched out and straining. He thought he heard something down the hall, but he couldn't be quite sure, and Malfoy's blathering was doing little to aid him; he held up a hand in an attempt to silence Malfoy._

_"They're still in their meeting, Potter; they barely left me an hour--"_

"Stop."

"Harry, I…"

_"Stop."_

The command was short and crisp, and Harry had to forcibly keep himself from flinching at the sound of his own voice. Barely three days out of battle, and Dumbledore was shifting through his memories, searching for whatever he could use to help piece together Draco Malfoy's last moments, the things Harry wasn't quite ready to let himself relive; Harry hadn't begged the Headmaster to stay out of his head, but the permission he had given had been grudging--he'd thought that if he was nearly forced into reliving that night that it would all fall into place, that his nightmares would end, that his body would stop being on the verge of going into shock and just leave him be.

He'd been wrong on all accounts, of course; it was still too soon, still too fresh, and sitting in the Headmaster's office, coming back to his senses in a jolt, Harry realized that he should have never agreed to come here in the first place. Sweat was dripping down his back, between his shoulder-blades and down his brow--his heart was hammering in his chest, and the ache in his hands told him he'd been gripping the edge of the armchair much too hard; his knuckles were white as he pulled his hands into his lap, massaging them gently. Avoiding Dumbledore's gaze, Harry stared at his battle scarred hands, trying to rub life back into them as he listened to the _click-smack-whirr_ of the headmaster's gadgets and gizmos. It was strangely relaxing, but the silence wasn't going to last, and it wasn't meant to.

Dumbledore wanted answers, and he wasn't getting them; Harry could feel the disappointment in the stare that had been fixed onto him and forced himself to not react. He had a right to privacy, a right to ask for time to heal before being plagued with questions--he didn't have to give up anything if he didn't want to. Harry held onto that thought viciously as he listened to Dumbledore's shifting of papers and fabric.

"Harry, if I thought that keeping this to yourself would be beneficial, I'd let you…" Dumbledore's voice was soft, but Harry heard every nuance of emotion in it, knew that he was being pandered to, being coddled. The words sounded too much like the things that had been said to him that fateful night in his fourth year, when Cedric had died and Voldemort had been reborn; Harry's hands clenched in his lap as he lifted his head, shaking it 'no.'

"You know why he died; I'm just the only one who knows _how_. I don't think that's all that important right now." His voice was raw, and the louder he spoke, the more it hurt; screaming at Malfoy, screaming at anyone who would listen to him hadn't done much other than create a lot of noise and confusion. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back and change it, to change all of it. God, what he wouldn't give to go back and be _prepared._ Looking Dumbledore in the eyes, Harry shook his head again. He wasn't in the mood for this; he was still tired, still weak, and he hadn't slept well since Malfoy had been killed.

He needed a break, to be honest. A break from all of this, a break from Hogwarts, a break from Dumbledore and his prying eyes. A break from fucking life, if it could be arranged.

Dumbledore peered at him from above his half-circle frames for a few moments, and Harry could almost hear the mental calculations, the speculations and ideas about how he was going to extract this information, how he was going to get Harry to comply and tell him about Malfoy's death. The man simply couldn't let anything lie, could he? Harry felt anger start to rise in his chest and sighed, clenching his aching hands in his lap. This was going to be a battle of wills, one Dumbledore would, most likely, ultimately win. Harry hated the thought; he hated the idea that he had no control over his life and what he was and wasn't going to tell the headmaster. He hated how, at seventeen, he was still expected to hand his life over and be everyone's pawn.

Waiting a few moments longer before saying anything to Harry, Dumbledore shifted around a few more papers on his desk and looked generally disinterested in what he was doing; Harry could tell his thoughts were still focused onto himself and had to consciously stop from fidgeting under the attention. Scrutinizing Harry seemed to be a favorite pastime of Dumbledore's as of late and eventually the gaze made him so uncomfortable he had to bite his tongue from saying anything. He wasn't going to let the headmaster know that he was bothering him simply by staring at him, probably looking into his soul and reading things that Harry would have preferred keeping to himself.

Eventually, his patience was rewarded with a clearing throat and a pointed stare. Harry maintained eye contact and vowed to himself that he wasn't going to be swayed, wasn't going to allow himself to be put through the hell he'd been so determinedly avoiding; he'd been won over one too many times, and now was the time to stick to his conviction.

"Harry, please. It would make things easier on the Order knowing…"

"Professor, with all due respect, _no_."

"You're making this quite difficult, my boy. I'm fully prepared to--"

"Prepared to _what_? Force it from me? You can't do that, Headmaster. I'm not going to let you, and it's high time you just leave me alone." Harry cut Dumbledore off heatedly, hands snapping against his thighs as he fought to control himself. He made to stand, but paused when Dumbledore held up a hand.

"No one's going to force anything from you, Harry, but I think we do need to know. It would make things so much easier on the Order as a whole." Dumbledore regarded him, eyes gentle and bright, demeanor kindly and unobtrusive and the sight made Harry even angrier; if the Headmaster thought he could manipulate Harry into facing this particular demon, he was wrong. So. Fucking. Wrong.

Standing completely, Harry looked down at the Headmaster coldly, shaking his head again in short, jerky movements. It wouldn't do to verbally lash out anymore, as it was getting him nowhere; what he needed to do was leave, and leave now while he still had some measure of dignity--and his memories--intact.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't. They're my memories, and we're doing just fine without them." Harry made for the door, refusing to acknowledge the stricken look on the headmaster's face; he kept his back straight and paused at the door when Dumbledore called his name. He turned to look at the aging man, hands balled fists at his sides and jaw clenched. Harry didn't want to deal with this right now; top priority on his list was resting, and after that eating, and after _that_ preparing for a battle they all knew as approaching. It was in the air—it was a shadow hidden on the faces of the students and teachers residing here, a bruise on the pale faces of the Order and a wrench in the gut none of them could be rid of.

Harry knew, because he had tried to free himself from it.

Swallowing, he nodded at the headmaster, prompting him to continue. It was the least he could do: listen. The man before him dealt with a lot of problems that Harry had caused, and offered solace whenever Harry sought it, reassurance and goodwill when it was needed. He was his mentor, and someone Harry had the utmost respect for—despite the fact that at this very moment said mentor was trying to pry something very private and tumultuous from his memories. Harry owed him quite a lot.

"Harry…" Dumbledore began, tone steely and no longer patronizing. "If you help me, help the Order, I'll put you under a Memory Charm. You'll be free of this as long as it's in my power."

Not quite believing that he'd heard right, Harry stood for a moment without reacting before swallowing thickly. The idea was enticing, heady and seductive, and being free of this horrid nightmare was something he'd asked for since it had happened; he wished Malfoy wasn't dead and that he hadn't made so many fucking mistakes, but here was his chance to be free of it—the only thing he had to do was relive it one more time, experience the horror that was still raw, still fresh against his eyelids and before he knew it…he'd be free. The harmonious snoring and soft titters of the portraits on the walls echoed in the silence that suddenly stretched long between them, and over the sound of the gadgets whirling in the air, Harry thought that Dumbledore might be able to hear the pounding of his heart as its pace grew rapid again.

To be free of Malfoy's last moments, to hand those over to Dumbledore and not feel a thing afterwards…Harry liked that idea very much. There wouldn't be any more nightmares; his body wouldn't be on the verge of breaking down, the shaking fits wouldn't be a part of him. It was completely possible if he did this for the headmaster, and Harry knew then that this was what the man had known it would come to, that he would no longer be in fear of what was going to happen to him.

Not trusting his voice, Harry nodded.

**x**

_Feedback would be lovely._


	2. II

**Summary:** Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.

**Author's Note: **And it continues:-D Thanks go to anyone who's reviewed so far, and I hope you'll enjoy this next part. I'd still love to know how I'm doing, so I'd appreciate it greatly if you left a review to give me a heads up.

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.

**Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer:** angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

**Overall Rating:** M, for Mature, just to be safe.

**x**

**Heal Over, Someday**

**II.**

**Chapter One**

_It takes a great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it._

_Oscar Wilde_

**x**

_**1999**_

"How many did we lose last night, Hermione?" Harry kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb the other patients in the hospital wing. He was unable to stop the question from leaving his mouth, however, despite the fact that Hermione looked worn, ragged, and close to tears seated beside his bed. Her shaking hands were wrapped in white bandages and they contrasted sharply against the bright red of her burns, not all of them covered by the material. Harry didn't remember how his friend had come to be in such a state, but wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to remember.

He needed to know, though, how many had been lost because of him, because of his stupidity. Hermione said that he had defeated Voldemort, but Harry had to know at what cost—Ron was in a bed halfway down the ward, as was Professor McGonagall, but there were so many faces that he didn't recognize because of bandages and wounds and there were far too many people _not_ there, not in the ward. Remus, for instance—Harry couldn't see Remus, hadn't seen him all afternoon. He'd been unable to ask if the older man was…missing, but he had to know what the chances were. Sirius was here, thank god, hobbling from bed to bed looking at the inhabitants and generally creating a fuss for the wounded Madam Pomfrey; but Sirius hadn't made any sign of knowing where his best friend was. It sickened Harry, to know there was a possibility that Remus had gone down with all the rest, just because of him.

Hermione looked like a first year beside him, hands bandaged and hair wild, but she was alive, and Harry was so fucking thankful to whatever god that existed that he didn't dare ask her how her hands had been burnt, or why she was close to tears. Maybe it was because it was over; the big battle they'd been preparing for years on end now was finally over and done. Voldemort was gone, the War was tipping in their favor.

But at what cost, Harry had to know. He stared at Hermione patiently, wondering if she'd ever get around to answering when she finally nodded to herself, eyes bright as she looked away, as if she'd reached a decision and wasn't quite sure if it were the right one.

"Thirty four," she eventually whispered, facing his pillow. "We…haven't been able to identify all of them yet, but we were…we were able to count them. We were able to count them," Hermione repeated, in a daze and unaware of the jolt of reality that had just stricken Harry.

Thirty four. Thirty four comrades dead and gone, probably in pieces if the Death Eaters had had anything to say about it; thirty for men and women, of which there was a distinct possibility that several of Harry's friends were a part of. Remus, Dean, Neville. And even his school yard rivals turned scared and reluctant heroes—Pansy Parkinson, Terry Boot, Zacharias Smith. The list of names in his mind ran over and over, and Harry had tried comparing faces against the names in his head repeatedly, but Madam Pomfrey had pressed him into his bed every time he'd tried to lean forward to look down the sea of beds currently inhabiting the hospital wing.

Her hands had been wrapped in bandages, too, but that thought hadn't registered until Harry had caught sight of Hermione, helping Professor Snape tend to Dumbledore a few beds down; things weren't looking up for the headmaster, and emotional turmoil toppled onto his already aching body when Harry realized that Dumbledore was probably dying, and that there didn't seem to be anything they could do for the man. He remembered that Professor Dumbledore had been involved in some sort of an explosion, something to do with the Death Eaters and Lucius Malfoy in particular, but Harry also remembered that he had been fixated on Bellatrix Lestrange the entire time this had been happening. She had been taunting him endlessly, trying to get after Sirius in particular, trying to hand him over to Aurors that were on the scene, Aurors that never made it past that woman's traps.

Harry felt bile rising in his throat at the memory of running past a jumble of bodies and spotting bubble gum pink hair and thinking, _Oh, my god. Tonks,_ before dodging a garbled, '_Crucio'._ He still didn't know if Tonks had been alive or dead, but no one had volunteered anything yet and Harry couldn't bring himself to ask, to interrupt the shocked peace they'd managed to establish within the past few hours. The crying had lessened, and there was a great deal less of sound in general, now that most of the hospital wing had fallen asleep, succumbing to the potions Madam Pomfrey poured down their throat at the earliest opportunity.

It made for more thinking time, and Harry hated it. If he knew that he wasn't going to dream once he fell asleep, he would have downed the small vial on his bedside table and given in to the urge to just lie and forget that anything had happened. But he couldn't—nightmares pressed on the inside of his eyelids and he knew they'd surface the moment he closed them in search of rest.

Hermione, though, she needed the respite. After fighting in the battle and helping various patients, the woman beside him was shaking as she sat, exhaustion written in the determined lines across her face; turning to his best friend and ignoring the low throb of pain in his side as he did so, Harry reached out and touched Hermione's shoulder tentatively, hoping to draw her attention. She had fixated on the iron bedpost behind him the moment she'd sat down and hadn't looked Harry in the eye since. Harry supposed it might be shock, but knew that either way she needed to sleep, needed to rest, to heal. They all needed to do that now, and Harry knew that once his own shock set in he'd be as useless as ever—he could feel it creeping up to him in tendrils, weaving its way into his waking thoughts and settling in. For now, he needed to make sure Hermione was going to be okay; ingrained habit made him put her before him and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Hermione," he whispered, when it became apparent that the young woman wasn't going to turn and face him. Harry could see her lips moving, could almost hear the mumbled _thirty four,_ but chose to ignore it for now and shook Hermione's shoulder gently.

The reaction he got wasn't quite what he had been expecting; Hermione started violently, coming back to herself with a jerk and soft cry. She seemed disoriented for a moment, but noticed Harry's hand on her shoulder and turned quickly, nearly overbalancing her chair.

"Harry!" she exclaimed suddenly, "Are you all right? Do you need anything?" Finally facing him, Harry noticed the glassy glare to Hermione's soft brown eyes and frowned; her hands were trembling as they pressed to his, to his wrist and elbow, checking for wounds—something she'd already done when she first sat down.

Harry shook his head, gently taking Hermione's hands into his own and holding them away from his injuries, where Hermione had been probing softly. "I'm fine, but you need to rest, Hermione. You need to go and lie down for a bit, sleep it off."

Eyes bright and alert for just a brief moment, Hermione began to shake her head but slumped against the edge of Harry's bed after a moment, whispering, "I suppose you're right. I'm…just so wound up, Harry. I keep seeing it in my head, and I can't bring myself to believe that it's actually over…"

"I don't think it's over, Hermione. I don't think it ever will be," Harry murmured, patting Hermione's wrist.

"Oh, Harry, surely you don't believe that?" Hermione's eyes were tearful, and Harry hated to see the fear behind those tears. He didn't know if the War was truly over, now that he'd killed Voldemort; Lucius Malfoy was still out there, as was Bellatrix, and neither were bound to take the loss of their Dark Lord with much grace. The battle had been short, fierce and full of casualties, but it probably hadn't been the last.

"I don't believe a lot of things, Hermione, but that isn't one of them. But I don't want to get into that now; you're exhausted. You should be curled up with Ron or something, making the most of whatever time we get before it starts back up again." Harry wanted to pray that what he was saying was wrong, wanted to be _proven_ wrong, but reality had a nasty way of putting its nose into things and shattering any illusions he'd had about this war. Despite how fast this last battle had been, killing Voldemort hadn't been easy. It had taken determination, and a powerful sense of knowing that it had to be done. He had to take life, had to deliberately kill something, something that had been a person once, and Harry clamped down on the thoughts there, grasping Hermione's hand tightly as she reached for his wrists again, presumably to check his injuries.

"Harry, please…"

"I'm fine, Hermione. Go, sleep. We'll talk about this," he glanced to the window, where late afternoon sun was streaming in through the high windows, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow that didn't quite reach his bed or his heart. "Later. I promise."

She was caving; it was in her eyes and every line of her body. Exhaustion was taking its toll and whatever adrenaline she'd been running on before was slowly dwindling away; her shoulders had a distinct slump to them and Harry knew that he'd won this personal battle. Reversing the grasp Harry had on her wrist and pressing his hand back into his chest, careful to avoid the bandages, Hermione smiled tenderly. "You need to rest, too, Harry; I'm sorry I kept you awake."

Harry shrugged; his shoulder burned and he couldn't hide the wince as he shook his head again. "I'm wide awake, Hermione. It's okay. You, go, sleep, and lay down with Ron."

"I hope you get some rest, too, Harry. You deserve it, far more than I do." Leaning down, Hermione pressed a kiss to his forehead and Harry could smell her perfume, mingled with the acrid stench of fire, of magic, blood, and dirt. The scent made his heart pound with dread, and he pulled away from her quickly, flashing a smile that he didn't feel.

"I'll be all right. Go."

Hermione went, her robes, tattered in places, fluttering around her womanly frame with a grace that had nearly developed overnight; Harry remembered when they had all been awkward teenagers, bumping into walls and growing into bodies that had stepped ahead of their minds. He remembered when Hermione had been flat-chested and bony; remembered when Ron realized that their best friend was a woman indeed. He was glad she had made it out alive, glad that she and Ron had found each other during the bitter nights of war, glad that they'd continue to be together now that everything was nearing the end. Harry didn't believe for a moment that yesterday had been the end of the war itself, but he could feel the end getting close. It was closing in on them at a nearly breakneck speed, pressing down on him from all sides and smothering him with 'what ifs' and 'what now's.

Leaning back into his pillows and taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, Harry listened to the low murmur of voices and deep breathing around him. The hospital wing seemed alive with the breath of the people in here, and beneath the soft thrum of noise Harry could hear Sirius' voice, talking to someone, could hear the man's limping step between the rows of beds. Sirius had assured him the damage to his leg wasn't permanent, that Madam Pomfrey had told him he'd be up and about within a week or so—he'd also said that he really shouldn't be walking on it now, but couldn't sit still, couldn't lay down and take the potions Pomfrey was handing out like water. Harry had told him then that he was extremely grateful that Sirius had made it out alive, but that he was also extremely pissed that Sirius had ventured out of Grimmauld where the Order had been stationed, awaiting Dumbledore's summons.

The anger he had felt seemingly hours ago had faded, leaving Harry with his own bone-deep exhaustion, with his numb thoughts. The reality hadn't completely sunk in yet; everything had a surreal feel to it that he couldn't shake, despite how hard he tried to grasp at control again. Pain hadn't registered on a major scale, despite the fact that Pomfrey had told him he'd better prepare for it, because his injuries were serious, no matter how easily he was able to shove them aside.

And waiting was terrible; Harry wasn't any good at it and never had been. Impatient his entire life, Harry preferred to go out and meet things head on. Dread wasn't something that sat well with him; Harry hated not having control of his body, of his surroundings. Being out of control nearly his entire life, with someone else in the driver's seat, so to speak, Harry liked to know what was coming and how he could handle it. But simply waiting for his body to notice he'd been severely injured, that now was the time to rest…Harry couldn't stand it. Something was driving him inside, pushing him to get up and move, to protect, to fight, but the fight was over for now. _His_ adrenaline hadn't quite settled, and he could feel the pound of it in his blood. He wondered how Sirius was doing it: moving. He wondered how his godfather was capable of it when his leg had nearly been destroyed barely twenty four hours ago.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since. Fighting, screaming, praying that he didn't hit someone on their own side and never quite knowing who he was fighting against, Harry hadn't lost consciousness for more than two hours since he'd fought Voldemort, since he'd completed the spell Dumbledore had started hours before, using his dwindling energy to hold during the skirmishes with Lucius Malfoy and Crabbe's father. Harry didn't understand the spell completely, he never had, but Dumbledore had assured him that it wasn't necessary and that the only thing he needed to do was hold to his conviction—to _know_ on some identifiable level that Voldemort had to be killed, that this was the only way. In the end, his parents' voices and faces had brought him through to the last word of the spell, wrapping their memories around him had been the only way to go through with it.

Voldemort had killed his parents, had killed countless numbers of people, children, Muggles, wizards, witches. It hadn't mattered what they had been in life; in their death, they stood for the future, for what would happen to thousands more if Harry had let that vile piece of filth walk the earth another day. Harry could hear the inhuman screams in his head, could still see the pyre of dark flames that had consumed that resurrected body and he felt his stomach clench, bile rising in the back of his throat as the memories came back to him in waves. Opening his eyes, Harry realized he'd started dozing off and clenched his hands before him, barely noticing the way his raw fingers rubbed against the material.

There were several gaps in his memory from last night, and Harry didn't remember why his hands were raw, but he also didn't remember being brought into the hospital wing. Too many thoughts were whirling inside his head, too many names, too many faces and spells that hadn't been his own, and his head ached with the pressure of trying to keep all of it in. He knew he needed to sleep, but it wasn't coming easy and, from experience, was well aware that the dreamless sleep potion Madam Pomfrey had placed on his bedside table wasn't going to be enough; over the years, it had been used sparingly, but his body had grown accustomed to it nonetheless. Too many times he'd had to use it, too many dreams he'd had to suppress; in the end, they all came back to him anyway. So, it was a matter of, did he want to face them now, or later?

It was cowardly, he knew, but he'd rather face these memories, these images in his head, at a later time. Much later—never, if it could be arranged. He wanted this to be over for him, wanted his mind back, and wanted his dreams back. Since his very _birth_, he'd been crucial in the war against Voldemort, he had been the key from day one. And now…now that Voldemort was gone and he was facing the prospect of having a life of his own…Harry wanted to take that chance with both hands and forget everything that had happened. He wanted to forget all the pain, the death, the guilt of not being fast enough to save more people. He wanted his life to be entirely his own, and not dependant on the statistics of war that were staring him blatantly in the face.

He wanted a fresh start, and he knew that was impossible.

Settling into his pillows and watching as Madam Pomfrey made her rounds, Harry tried his best to fight the fatigue that was slowly taking hold of him. Giving in would mean dreaming, and dreaming would mean facing yesterday in its entirety. Sleep would lower his defenses, and Harry was well aware of what was on the other side of those defenses—pain. Once, just once, he'd like to fall asleep, and sleep easy; he'd like to feel secure, relaxed, to be free of hurt and rage, and every other emotion that had been building in him for months.

Eyeing the potion bottle on his bedside table, feeling the lethargy and weakness creep over him, Harry debated on whether it would be worth it or not. Dreamless sleep potions were hard to strengthen, so Harry knew it was a simple, normal dose in that vial and whether it would do any good depended entirely on his body and how tired he really was. Of that, he was no judge, but he knew that he could probably be dead and still be haunted by these images, these memories of the past twenty four hours alone.

If he took the potion, there was a possibility that it wouldn't even work, and if he didn't, there was also the possibility that he wouldn't even dream. But that was an impossible thing; he'd been dreaming for years now, and Voldemort's hideous face was always enough to bring it all rushing back. Like now, when sleep was close but still so far away…Harry could see those flashing red eyes, could hear that piercing, hollow scream, and could feel the heat of that flame as it grew upwards, caressing burning robes and filling the air with an unimaginable stench…

Harry fell into a fitful sleep, potion forgotten on his bedside table.

**x**

_Feedback would be lovely._


	3. III

**Summary:** Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.

**Author's Note: **'kay, guys, someone's slacking. :-P I've had a bunch of hits for the entire story, but no one's leaving any reviews. I'd love to hear your feedback, no matter how simple. Whether you liked it or hated it, I'd love to know. Because, if you guys don't tell me what I'm doing wrong, I won't be able to fix it, hehe. So, please review. It makes me a very happy woman. Also, I'm very sorry for the delay. RL stuck its nose in like you wouldn't believe, and finding the time or the energy to write has been an impossible task as of late. Hopefully, I'll have future chapters out to you guys much sooner.

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.

**Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer:** angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

**Overall Rating:** M, for Mature, just to be safe.

x

**Heal Over, Someday**

**III.**

**Chapter Two**

_In the battle between the river and the rock, the river will always win. Not through strength but by persistence.  
_Confucius

x

_There's a woman screaming, and it's a horrible sound; he's heard it before, over and over again until the scene changes and there are words, panicked, racing instructions, before green light and nothingness. Harry knows he can stop this, knows he can close both his ears and his heart against the noise, but there's something inside of him holding him back—he wants to hear this sound, _needs _to hear it because it's the only time he'll ever get to hear these voices again, and before he knows it, he's relishing in the screams, and enjoying them almost languidly._

_It takes him a moment to realize what he's doing and, before he can sputter in disbelief, there's bile in his throat as he backs away and trips through a Veil that threatens to drag him down and pull him under into eternity. It had already taken Sirius; it had no qualms about taking him, too._

_Harry's falling through the mist and the silky fabric of the Veil is caressing him gently, lowering him down into the throes of passion and heartache, and the moon is full above him. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear Remus screaming, his transformation taking him from mild mannered man to man eating beast. Harry briefly wonders if Remus knows what fear tastes like from the inside out before he's being caught, and Sirius is whispering in his ear, voice cracking and breaking beneath a thin bubble of blood. "I've got you, Harry. I've got you."_

_But, suddenly, it's not Sirius, and Harry is looking up into Voldemort's crimson gaze, which flickers briefly to the bloody, broken form of a man behind him. Harry knows it's Hagrid, can feel that it might be Cedric, too, and before he can open his mouth to scream, Voldemort is pressing a rotting finger to the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. Hot, searing, mind-numbing pain and a brief flicker of completion, of pleasure, before Harry's pushing Voldemort away and crawling over to Cedric. There's a blank look on his features, and Harry begs the moon to bring him back, to let him breathe. _

_There's a voice on the wind, and it's Ron's voice, it's Sirius', it's Remus', it's Hermione's and it's Voldemort's. It says, "It's alright, it's not your fault," before whispering a thousand horrors and touching him gently. He's gathered into darkness, and he screams—_

"Harry, wake up. Stop fighting me and _wake. Up._"

Harry woke with a gasp, fighting the scream in the back of his throat and blindly pushing against the hands trying to hold him to the bed. In his half-asleep state, those gentle hands felt like vices trying to press him back into his nightmare, and his stomach lurched violently. With a soft cry, Harry managed to free himself for a moment, before he was being shaken, words washing over him waveringly until they grew in strength; Harry's heart pounded fiercely as he inhaled through his teeth, trying to open his eyes and not quite managing it until he realized that it was Sirius speaking to him, tone soft and slightly exasperated, as though he didn't really have a clue as to what he was doing but was going to try anyways.

"_No_," Harry moaned softly, pressing back into his pillows and covering his face with his hands. Sunlight streamed in between his fingers, and he had a moment to wonder what time it was before his body woke completely and reminded him, powerfully, that it was in pain and in great need of care. He groaned again, turning his face away from the bright light and into his pillow, which smelt of sweat, fear and smoke. It smelt of death and magic and if he had had the energy to get up and shower, he would have done it when he'd first come in; as it was, Harry could barely move under his own power; and now that the pain potions had worn off, he was completely incapable of it.

"'bout time you woke up, kiddo," Sirius murmured somewhere to his left, hand still resting on Harry's forearm. Harry welcomed the touch, using it to ground himself in the here and now, using it to pull himself from the remnants of his nightmare. His godfather sounded tired, but pleased, and Harry tried cracking open an eye to look at him, as he hadn't seen the man up close since he'd been brought in; out there, on the battlefield, two days ago…Sirius had been nothing more than another number, another injury added to the ever growing list, and it had pained Harry to leave him lying in the field, but he'd had to get on with what had needed to be done.

He resisted the urge to draw Sirius into a fierce embrace and tentatively lowered his hands from his face, wincing when the brilliant morning sunlight filtered through completely, leaving him momentarily blind. Sirius looked ragged but whole when Harry's sight finally adjusted, and he felt tightness somewhere in the vicinity of his throat; the man was smiling, he _looked_ happy, something Harry hadn't seen Sirius do or be in a very long time.

"Pomfrey left you some potions," his godfather said by way of greeting, jerking his thumb to Harry's bedside table, where the unopened vial of dreamless sleep potion sat glittering next to an array of bottles of all different colors and shapes; there were at least twelve. Harry recognized a few, but wasn't sure what they were for.

Throat tight and heart still pounding rapidly in his chest, Harry didn't trust himself to speak and nodded, settling his hands into his lap and trying to avoid looking as unnerved as he felt. Despite his attempts to drag his mind away from the nightmare he'd just had and focus on Sirius, Harry's mind kept straying in that direction, to that touch and those voices, and he shivered, despite the heat the sunlight was providing; it was mid-summer, but to Harry, at that moment, it felt more like late autumn, or early winter. Sirius must have noticed, because he reached out, but drew back when Harry shook his head. He didn't want any more contact, no matter how tempting the physical comfort may be.

To deter any questions or statements of how bloody horrible he _knew_ he looked, Harry swallowed and motioned in Sirius' general vicinity with the hand he didn't have clenched in the bed sheets. "Um, how are you?"

The question fell flat between them; Harry's voice a shadow of its usual self, but he was genuinely concerned and he hoped Sirius would see that. Leaving his godfather lying, hurt, in the middle of a fucking field during a raging battle hadn't exactly left him feeling that great; it weighed heavily on him, knowing that he could have prevented a lot of damage to Sirius' person, if he'd simply stuck around longer, or arrived earlier.

Knowing that he could have saved a lot more people if he'd simply been stronger.

Sirius shrugged, slightly lank hair falling into his face with the action; he looked as though he could use the shower Harry wanted desperately. "I've been better, Harry, but I'm okay. Still a bit sore."

He was so nonchalant about it that it made Harry smile, glad to see that some things just didn't change in the face of war. Sirius wasn't one to stay down for long; Azkaban may have beaten his godfather, and being on the run may have broken him a little bit further, but Sirius was going to pull through like the stubborn bastard he was, each and every time. Sirius looked at him, gaze suddenly sober, his eyes bright with something Harry couldn't quite name. His smile died on his face, and nearly became a grimace before Sirius asked, "And what about you? Are _you_ all right?"

The question pinned him on the spot and looking away was an option he briefly considered but didn't follow through with. Sirius deserved the truth, if no one else did—but Harry couldn't bring himself to answer the man truthfully. Harry wasn't all right, he'd been better, but life went on—even for him, supposedly. There wasn't any need to bother Sirius with whatever problems of his that might be lingering with him.

"I'm fine," Harry murmured after a moment, shrugging as much as his body would allow. "In desperate need of a shower, but I'm all right."

Sirius did touch him, then; patting at Harry's wrist for a moment, a relieved grin broke out over the older man's handsome features. "You can have that shower, as soon as you take a few of these potions. Pomfrey said you'll need them for a while yet, if you're going to be up and about."

Harry glanced at the bottles again, wondering what half of them were for, when it occurred to him that no one had really explained to him what in the hell was wrong with him; the obvious, he'd been able to surmise on his own. He'd cracked a few ribs and hit his head but, other than that, he hadn't the faintest clue as to what was wrong with him; his shoulder ached fiercely and his vision swam every little bit, for reasons he couldn't quite name.

He supposed his vision might be swimming from a concussion, which made sense. He'd hit his head pretty fucking hard on the way down; the only thing cushioning his fall had been his arm, which he vaguely remembered Madam Pomfrey saying had been broken. It ached slightly when he flexed it, but what worried him was his shoulder; looking down at it and shifting aside the fabric of his hospital issue pajama top under Sirius' watchful gaze, Harry's fingers met bandage and he looked back up sharply. He didn't understand; he didn't remember hurting his shoulder, didn't remember it being bound…didn't remember a lot of things from the battle, to be honest, but Harry was sure that _this _warranted remembering.

The bandage was pretty big, he realized as he trailed his fingers over it. Laying his hand flat over the wound, Harry asked Sirius, "What happened?"

"I'm, ah, surprised you don't remember," Sirius replied, looking down at Harry's shoulder, where the skin of his hand made for a sharp contrast against the white of the bandage. He looked, for the barest of moments, as if he didn't want to answer Harry, but the moment passed and he looked back up at his godson, meeting his eyes with the barest of smiles. "When you and Voldemort…went down, it was a while before any of the Order members could get to you. You were hit with a few stray curses, but your shoulder bore the brunt of it. You weren't exactly…visible."

Harry remembered falling, remembered rolling, remembered coming to a halt against _something_ before blackness overtook him and shuddered at the memory, blinking quickly to dispel the images. "_I'm _not surprised that I don't remember," Harry answered after a moment had passed. "There's…quite a few things I can't remember."

"I know what you mean," Sirius muttered darkly, reaching over to the bedside table to grasp several of the potions bottles in hand. "You need to drink these as soon as possible, Harry. I'd rather eat hippogriff shit myself, to be honest, but Madam Pomfrey said you had to down all of them and I'm here to make sure you do."

He looked properly apologetic, and Harry eyed the bottles in his hand and on the table warily. Harry knew that if Madam Pomfrey said he needed them, he probably did. He didn't doubt that they were necessary in the slightest, either; if the messages his body was delivering had any relevancy, it'd be best to take those potions as soon as possible and heal whatever damage he could.

"Any particular order?" he asked, reaching for a crystal bottle in Sirius' hand, wondering what it was for, why it wasn't labeled.

Sirius shook his head. "She didn't say anything, but I'm sure they're bloody awful, no matter what order you drink them in."

"You're probably right," Harry laughed softly, uncorking the bottle gently and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder and arm at the action. He brought the bottle to his nose, sniffed delicately and attempted to tell his stomach that it was pumpkin juice in a bid to convince himself that this couldn't possibly be as nasty as it smelled. Because it smelled horrible.

"Down it in one go," Sirius suggested, watching him with a mild grimace of his own. "It's easier that way."

"I know," Harry muttered, wincing as he put the bottle to his mouth and tasted the first bitter dregs of the potion. His throat tried closing itself against the liquid as his head snapped back and he tipped the potion back quickly; throat working against a gag, Harry brought the bottle back down and immediately covered his mouth with his hand.

"Disgusting?" Sirius asked, reaching for the glass of water on Harry's bedside table. He handed it over, waiting patiently as Harry took a few seconds to wipe away the water streaming from his eyes.

Harry shot his godfather a look that clearly said what he thought of it; disgusting was a mild term, compared to what he thought of _that_ particular potion. Harry took a few cautious sips of the water and willed his stomach to calm; he had quite a few more potions to take, and would have to do it all over again if he got sick. He didn't think Sirius would appreciate being thrown up upon, either.

He didn't feel any different, Harry realized after a moment had passed; whatever the potion was, it either had no immediate effects or was helping him in a way he couldn't quite pinpoint. Either way, it made him wonder what he was taking them for; looking at Sirius, he knew he wouldn't get any answers from the man beside him and instead glanced down the rows of beds to see if he could catch Madam Pomfrey.

His stomach churned at the sight; Harry couldn't believe the amount of beds stretched out around him and he paused in raising the glass of water to his mouth. This…this many people, over half of whom Harry didn't know, had risked their lives so he could finish a job that had been left to him at the tender age of one. So many people…so many injuries, so many _deaths, _all here today because of some fucking madman and Harry's inability to _think_ in a crisis. If only he'd been faster…if only he'd figured it out sooner—there was no waiting in War. There wasn't any time to stop and check on every fucking person you came across; there was barely any time to fight, much less heal wounds on the battlefield.

Sirius followed Harry's line of sight, looking out over the expanse before him, and he frowned. "It isn't your fault," he supplied knowingly, after a long moment had passed between them. "Most of them will be fine. The others…they're going to be sent to St. Mungo's for extra care, soon. Dumbledore, included."

It occurred to Harry, then, looking over to the headmaster's bed, where a partition had been placed to offer the dying man some privacy, that he didn't know what had happened to Dumbledore, to Remus, to Tonks, to quite a few others that Harry had seen on the battlefield but hadn't seen coming in. He had meant to ask Hermione the day before, but Hermione had been in such a daze, had been so tired and upset, that he hadn't had the heart to. But now, looking into Sirius' worn but _whole _features, Harry had to know.

"What happened to him?" He asked softly, watching with great interest as Madam Pomfrey bustled her way through the aisles towards the headmaster's bed.

"No one really knows, but McGonagall is pretty sure he was under '_Crucio'_ for quite a while. Remus…Remus told us that he saw the headmaster being hit with two unidentifiable curses. I—"

The mention of Remus' name made Harry start; he hadn't heard anything, anything at all, of the man. He hadn't even seen Remus out on the battlefield; it'd been _days _since Harry had spoken to him.

"Remus. Is he…is he okay?" Harry found himself interrupting, eyes scanning the room for some sign of the older man. He had looked for him when he had first been brought into Hogwarts, when he'd been looking for Ron and Tonks as Madam Pomfrey had patched him up and fed him potion after potion, but hadn't seen anything. There had simply been too many people; too many faces to sort through and searching through them all had been impossible—especially while Harry had been swimming in and out of consciousness.

"Remus is fine; he was banged up a bit in the fight. A few cuts and bruises but nothing too bad. He's…in the library, with Hermione, I think; Professor McGonagall sent them up to see if they could figure out which curses Dumbledore and a few others had been hit with." Sirius sounded relieved, glad, and Harry knew that losing Remus had been something he'd been quite afraid of; Remus was one of the only things that Sirius had left—as Sirius was one of the only things _Harry _had left. He understood completely, and sat back in his bed with a sigh, relief flooding through him.

Remus wasn't dead, he was very much alive, according to Sirius, and that was…important. Harry hadn't wanted to add the man's name to the ever growing list of people who were now gone, people Harry hadn't been able to save. He meant a lot to Harry, had come to mean a lot to him over the past few years, and losing him would have been like losing Ron, Hermione, or Sirius.

It was something he couldn't bear thinking about. Harry looked at Sirius and found the man holding out a few more vials of potions, jerking his head in Madam Pomfrey's direction; the matron was looking towards him with a distinct frown, and Harry knew that they were both in for a sound tongue lashing if Harry didn't down the bottles Sirius was holding out to him with a frown of his own.

Resigned, Harry reached out and took the bottle nearest him, and uncorked, sniffed, and drank it quickly. It burned on the way down and, almost immediately, his shoulder started to sting and burn softly against the fabric of his bandage; hissing softly in pain, Harry took the offered glass of water from Sirius and accepted the fact that this wasn't going to be any more fun than the last three days had been.

xxx

Harry drank thirteen potions in total, not including the vial of dreamless sleep potion that Sirius insisted he down in an effort to get some more rest; the way he'd said it implied that Harry would need it later and, ignoring the lurching of his stomach, he drank the tiny vial in one go, feeling the effects almost immediately. Harry fell into a deep, dreamless sleep in seconds, Sirius' swimming face the last thing he saw before he fell back into his pillows.

He woke, hours later, to the soft murmur of voices somewhere in the near vicinity, and listened for a few moments, not quite sure what was going on until his brain caught up with what was being said and his eye lids snapped open briefly, struggling to lift completely. His body, still heavy with sleep and the aches leftover from the fight, fought against him valiantly. For a couple of minutes, Harry lay and listened, heart pounding all the while and wishing his body would listen to him and just wake _up._

"We can't be sure, the reports aren't conclusive and I'm afraid that one or more of our contacts have died, but…we suspect that Lucius Malfoy escaped custody this morning." That sounded like Professor McGonagall; her voice was weary, soft. It echoed gently in the large room, and Harry flinched at the implications.

Malfoy, escaped from the Aurors, meant that the remaining Death Eaters had a rallying point around Voldemort's second in command. If anything, Malfoy would lead an effort to rebuild Voldemort's army and attempt to take the school, again; something they had been afraid of from the start—Lucius had been a top priority prisoner when he'd been captured during the battle against Voldemort, and if he was free, that meant his guard unit was dead.

That meant that Bill and Percy Weasley were possible casualties. Harry's stomach clenched at the thought. Reaching blindly towards the bedside table, Harry felt for his glasses and slid them onto his face with an aching arm; he'd have to find out if what McGonagall had said was true. He didn't look forward to getting out of bed, but he _had_ to know. He had to know if Bill and Percy had been killed, if anyone else he knew had been part of that high security guard that had been sent with Lucius Malfoy to the Ministry of Magic.

Rolling over onto his side and prying his eyes open slowly, Harry took inventory of the room before him, the late afternoon light more than enough to highlight the deep wrinkles of stress etched across Professor McGonagall's face as she stood beside Dumbledore's bed. The headmaster was awake, and propped up, but his face was pale and his hands were shaking violently as he repeatedly lifted and lowered a glass of water to his bluish lips. His eyes, from what Harry could see, were bright, but his face was lined with pain; despite the ragged image, the sight of the man made Harry think of calmer days, when a simple visit to the headmaster had made everything all right.

Groaning softly with the effort it took to move his aching limbs, Harry brought himself into a seated position, eyes fixed on the pair a few beds down. McGonagall was standing beside the headmaster, looking as though she'd give anything to sit and relax, but the set of her shoulders told Harry that she had work to do and wouldn't allow herself rest until it had been done. Neither had noticed him moving, and that was good, because the past few months, Dumbledore had been trying to shield him from as much as possible; Harry didn't remember what started it, but it had been the source of many problems.

Dumbledore had told him that he needed all of his focus elsewhere, on killing Voldemort, and not on what Voldemort was _doing_—Harry had tried explaining that it didn't matter if he was going to kill the bastard or not. He still had a right to know who was dying, how, when, where…why. Harry felt he had the right to _know _what he was fighting for, because, at times, everything felt like a colossal joke put together to strip him of his sanity.

At times, it had almost worked, too.

"What contacts do we still have?" Dumbledore was asking, voice wavering only slightly. He had set his hands in his lap, looking as distinguished as one possibly can in a hospital gown, bruises littering his arms and scrapes on his hands. Harry followed the line of one cut from elbow to wrist, and, judging by the amount of tape had been used to hold the pieces of flesh together, he knew that to be the mark from Malfoy himself. Harry remembered that flash of light, the burst of anger in his chest when he realized that the situation had been leaving his control and Lucius was starting to look elsewhere for his fun.

He remembered blasting the fucker a few feet back with a particularly powerful Patronus.

"Susan Bones is the only person I've been able to speak to, at the moment, and Remus mentioned that a few of his contacts might still be alive; he's up in the owlery now, writing out a few notes. Susan was the one to inform us of Malfoy's disappearance; his guard never arrived at the Ministry, where she and her aunt were waiting for them."

"I'd like to see Remus, when he's finished," Dumbledore murmured, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table, turning slightly and meeting Harry's eyes. He smiled after a moment; it was a ghost of its former self, but a smile nonetheless, and Harry felt himself smiling softly in return, despite the circumstances.

Shifting on the bed and drawing his legs over to the side, Harry sat and took several deep breaths, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he called softly, "How are you feeling, Headmaster?" hoping to call attention away from the fact that he had been listening in. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to walk the entire span of the three beds between them and idly looked around to see if Hermione or Sirius were around to help him up. Ron was sprawled across a bed two rows over, red hair start against the white of his pillow, but Hermione wasn't in sight, and Harry could see the gently wagging tail of his godfather's animagus form draped over the foot of Tonks' bed. Tonks was asleep, looking rather worse for the wear, but Harry felt something loosen in his chest at the sight. She was alive.

Standing with care, Harry kept eye contact with Dumbledore and braced himself on the bedpost; his legs were shaking, but Harry was sure that was more from lack of use in the past two days than from any damage.

"You shouldn't be out of bed, yet, Harry," Dumbledore admonished after a moment had passed, but he made no move to tell Harry to stay where he was; Harry took that as an invitation and hobbled slowly over to the headmaster's bed. Professor McGonagall eyed him critically, but said nothing, and fetched him a chair when he wavered, attempting to seat himself onto the bed beside Dumbledore's. She took his elbow, easing him down gently, and Harry flashed her a grateful smile.

"I'm, ah, afraid that I don't follow the rules all that well, Headmaster," Harry replied, fussing with the edge of his pajama top and nodding to Professor McGonagall when she offered, "I'll speak with you later, Albus. Harry, take care," before disappearing down the rows of beds, making her way across the room slowly, answering the occasional question from a patient and eventually seating herself down in a chair next to a sleeping wizard Harry couldn't remember the name of.

"I have noticed that, my dear boy," Dumbledore answered him with an indulgent smile that did nothing to hide the pained look that was stretched across the man's features. "I see that you were listening to the Headmistress and I. I'm terribly sorry, Harry; I wish we knew more."

"I…you knew I was going to ask, about Bill, and Percy," Harry stated. It wasn't surprising, that Dumbledore would know, he _always_ knew. Slumping in his seat, Harry stared at the floor, at the stream of colors the sun was painting across the faded white tiles; he felt Dumbledore's eyes on his face and refused to look up and meet that gaze, because he felt tears pricking at the backs of his eyelids. This complete loss of control over who lived and who died bothered Harry. So far, he'd been lucky enough to not lose anyone close to him, but if Bill and Percy were gone…that was family. The _Weasleys _were family, the only family he'd ever known.

"Minerva was just informing me of details she'd only found out about, herself, just mere hours ago. Since the battle two days ago, our contacts are scattered and information is scarce. I do not know about the Weasley boys, but we do know that Voldemort is gone for good; and sadly, most of his followers seemed to have slipped away. Without the evidence of their Dark Marks, we'll have quite a difficult time of tracking them all. Unfortunately," Dumbledore added after a second had passed. He sounded increasingly tired, and Harry hated that; hated that Dumbledore was going to be a casualty of this war, that his time was limited—something Harry could see in the simple set of the man's face, in the tension between his shoulders and the shaking in his hands.

"I didn't know their Dark Marks had disappeared," Harry answered awkwardly, looking up to meet Dumbledore's eyes, blinking away the tears that were still threatening. And that was the truth; he _hadn't_ known. He hadn't heard anyone say anything about it, but he supposed that the only people who really _would _know would be Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape. The latter of the three was someone Harry hadn't seen since yesterday. And even then, it was only briefly; he and Snape tended to avoid each other like the fucking plague.

"Yesterday, I believe; Severus informed me this afternoon. His has faded significantly and should be no more than a memory by morning. We're left to wonder if Voldemort had planned this, to protect his followers. But the mere idea of Riddle protecting those he used for his own means…it's contradictory, to say the least." His voice faded into silence, and Harry was left with that mystery to puzzle as he scanned over the rows of beds, over faces he did and didn't know, listening to the soft hush that always seemed to be present in this particular room.

The idea of Voldemort protecting _anyone's_ identity in the face of his death was…laughable. Harry had to wonder if it was simply something the bastard had overlooked during the creation of the Dark Mark itself; anything was possible. Voldemort had had a way of surprising them over the past few years—and Harry also had to wonder if he had even thought himself capable of death. If he had been able to contemplate that final end. Harry hoped he was rotting in hell, if he still had a soul to _send _into hell; fuck, Harry'd settle for _knowing_ Voldemort was stuck in some horrific limbo. Anything that meant he wasn't _here_, alive, killing.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the greasy feel of it, and looked back up at the headmaster, who was watching him with bright, pained eyes. Eyes that made Harry _realize_, suddenly, that Voldemort was, indeed, gone. And that it had cost quite a lot, but he was _gone_. Soul sealed to a body that had been blown to fucking _pieces_.

But…it wasn't over. Voldemort might be finished, but there were still Death Eaters out there, loyal to the cause. Lucius Malfoy was, quite possibly, at this very moment, free. That alone was enough to damn them to more battles, more dead comrades, more injuries, more _damage._ None of which Dumbledore would be able to control, because he wasn't going to _be _there.

"This is going to be pretty hard without you, sir," Harry muttered quietly, trying his best to keep the man's gaze and not quite managing it. He couldn't bring himself to face this particular reality in the face just yet, although he knew it was only a matter of time. A _short_ matter of time, at that. Losing Dumbledore was going to bring an entirely new kind of hurt into his life, and he didn't know if he'd be able to handle it with as much grace as the headmaster seemed to think he would.

"You'll be fine, my dear boy. You'll be fine."

Harry…didn't quite agree. He stared down at the headmaster's shaking hands and wondered how long the man before him had, how long it was going to take, how he was going to die…how Harry was going to cope. It was selfish of him, but Harry feared that as soon as Dumbledore passed, that the remainder of the War would fall to him, onto his shoulders. Harry didn't want that. His job was done—he wanted to be free, wanted to live quietly and knew that it wasn't going to be possible until the Death Eaters that had escaped them were captured; that it wasn't going to happen until Lucius Malfoy was back into custody. But he didn't want to be the one people looked to for answers; he couldn't…do that.

In the end, he chose not to reply, chose not to make his opinion known and instead asked the Headmaster a question of happier times, that led the man to tell him a story of socks, Harry's parents, of tenpin bowling and the merits of music. Harry couldn't help but feel that Dumbledore was saying goodbye; that he was making up for something, apologizing all in the same shortened breaths. It hurt to listen to, but Harry passed the rest of the afternoon away slouching in a chair that made his entire body ache; he couldn't tear himself away and shook his head when Madam Pomfrey asked if he'd like to head back to bed.

Some things, Harry decided later, lying in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling, wishing he had the energy to shower, were worth listening to, worth hurting for.

x

_Feedback would be lovely._


	4. IV

**Summary:** Slash, Remus/Harry Despair is a bitter thing and, although the War is over and his duty as hero is done, even Harry Potter can't help but fall prey to the grasping emotion. Unable to shake the depression and the continuing cries of the Wizarding world, Harry needs someone to turn to. Enter Remus Lupin, who just might be able to help Harry in ways no one has ever been able to before.

**Author's Note: **Thanks go to morriganscrow for the first review on thanks also go to T.A.M and Branwen777 for their lovely comments, and to anyone who has added to the story to their favorites list or update list. :-D I really appreciate it, hehe. :-) I've had over a thousand hits, so I'm glad that you guys keep coming back for more; I'd really love it if you left a review to let me know what you think!

**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Harry, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Bill Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Snape, Tonks, Dumbledore, McGonagall, various Order members. Remus/Harry, Ron/Hermione, Charlie/Tonks, brief mentions of past Harry/Draco.

**Warning(s)/Story Note(s)/Disclaimer:** angst, AU (ignoring several elements of book five and completely ignoring book six), violence, language, alcohol abuse, slash, het, brief mentions of sex. Anything I've forgotten? Please, leave a review and let me know. :-) I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters within this story, and do not claim to. No profit is being made from this work of fanfiction.

**Overall Rating:** M, for Mature, just to be safe.

Big hugs go to Claire for reading this chapter over for me:-D

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**Heal Over, Someday**

**IV.**

**Chapter Three**

_devastation – verb – to lay waste; destroy_

The American Heritage Dictionary

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He was in shock. Harry knew this without questioning it, and, distancing himself from his body's natural reaction to the stress, he realized that he had been in the process of going _into_ shock for quite some time now. Isolated in his bed, in his end of the Hospital Wing, Harry hadn't seen the full spectrum of the damage done during the final battle against Voldemort. He thought he had seen it all, thought he had experienced every part of war already. He had thought he was numb against the horrors; had thought that he would be prepared for whatever met his eyes when he was finally, _finally_, allowed from his bed.

But…today had changed everything. In a few simple moments, he had gone from being blissfully unawares of the extent of the pain around him to seeing it and feeling it acutely. Staring at the damp, tiled wall before him, Harry had to wonder at how he'd missed the overall atmosphere of _despair_ that had settled into the Hospital Wing. It was thick and heavy, and it was infused into every face, every movement, every voice that carried through the room. People were still dying all around him, and he hadn't noticed. Hadn't noticed until Sirius had taken his elbow as he steadied Harry on the edge of the bed and had walked him down the aisle that separated him from the bathroom, and the shower he had so desperately wanted.

He had thought they were safe, that it was over.

He wished, now, that he could have stayed in bed and avoided meeting those accusing stares, those fading eyes, the sight of blood and pus still oozing from wounds that refused to start healing, days after the battle. Five beds down, there was a man that Harry hadn't recognized to be Neville until Madam Pomfrey had come bustling by him, murmuring, "You'll be fine in time, Longbottom." Harry had stopped, tugging gently on his elbow and the grip Sirius had upon it; his godfather hadn't let him pause for any longer than a moment, and when they had neared the end of the aisle, Sirius had whispered,

"He doesn't have much time. Pomfrey is trying to make him as comfortable as possible for now."

Comfort, it appeared, was something that Neville needed in droves; the bloody bandages covering him like a patchwork quilt were covering deep, flowing wounds and Harry had caught a glimpse of what lay _beneath_ those bandages as they rounded the corner and he turned to look back. Bile rose in his mouth at the sight, and Harry was still having a hard time fighting against the urge to be sick, an hour later.

Starting to shake with effort and shock and _awe_, Harry had had to lean on Sirius almost completely as the man led him to the showers, and stripping was an effort that took the both of them; Harry had little modesty left. Having been patched up in various places by various people, being shamed of his body was something he didn't have time for. War barely left him the time to sleep and eat. He paid little attention to the array of marks that littered his torso; curse burns, scars, and hex lashes formed an interesting portrait of the war over his flesh. Scrubbing his damaged skin pink, Harry had avoided looking at himself for as long as possible and had shaken his head when Sirius had asked him, from behind the cover of the door, if he was interested in getting out.

The water running over him had been scalding hot when he'd first stepped in, but the spray had long gone cold. Staring at the tile before him, Harry couldn't bring himself to leave the room, to go back out into the ward where the air was stale and the eyes staring at the back of his neck felt like pinpricks. So many accusing glares, so many tired eyes and dying friends. How had he not known? How could he have missed it? Any of it? Dumbledore, he knew, was dying, but he was doing so calmly and quietly, and his words had eased Harry into such a state of comfort, that Harry hadn't imagined the state of horror around him.

Hermione had told him that thirty-four had been killed outright. But how many were dead now? Three days after the battle, that number was ever growing and now that he'd s_een _it, Harry could _feel_ those people, could feel their fading magic and he could hear their last, whispery breaths…releasing a shuddering breath of his own, Harry eased himself down onto the startlingly cold tile beneath him and lifted a shaking hand to stop the spray of the water. The room went silent, and the sound was as unnerving as the hush in the Hospital Wing just outside.

Harry hated it. Hated the quiet, hated the oppressive feel of those _eyes_. He had to keep asking himself how he had missed any of that, and when he came up with nothing to answer himself with, he set his head against the wall and drew his knees up to hide his pockmarked stomach, the sharp contrast of the dark scar against his pale hip. He remembered that one with acute clarity, could almost _feel _the wand tip burning bright and hot against his flesh as he tackled Draco Malfoy to the ground and hissed, '_Just what in the fuck do you think you're doing?'_

'_Playing the hero,' Draco had sneered back, glancing at the tattered robes beneath his hand; examining the wound he'd created with dispassionate fingers, he looked back up at Harry and grinned, 'That's going to scar, you know.' _

Harry, who hadn't felt the pain of whatever it was until Malfoy had pointed it out, looked down at his hip and hissed again, the blood oozing into his jeans uncomfortable and warm. _He didn't have time to patch himself up, and glanced over Malfoy's face and hands quickly, checking for wounds, before standing as fast as he possibly could, ignoring the sudden ache in his hip and stomach. Whatever Malfoy had done, Harry knew, without a doubt, that it _would _scar. It didn't matter, though. Not with time so short and the Death Eaters so close. He had to get Malfoy out of here, before they caught up with them and Draco was exposed as a spy._

'_Looks like I've made my mark on you, Potter,' Draco muttered as he stood, too, glancing with wide eyes, unaccustomed to the sudden dark, around the shadowed clearing._

'You made your mark on me a long time ago, Malfoy,' Harry murmured back, hand up, motioning for Draco to be silent.

'Did—

"Harry?"

Jerking harshly at the sudden sound of his voice in the quiet room, Harry's head snapped forward with enough force to make his neck ache; squinting towards the black smudge of the doorway, Harry could make out a pale profile and muttered a soft, "What?" as he brought a hand up to cradle the back of his skull. He didn't recognize this person's voice, and Sirius had his glasses and wand; feeling their loss acutely, Harry drew himself into a tighter ball on the tiled floor and cleared his throat as he asked again, "What?"

The door shut behind whoever it was, and, for the briefest of moments, Harry felt a draft of cool air drift across his feet. The profile lengthened to a pale neck, a torso garbed in what appeared to be dark blue or black, and Harry squinted again, trying his best to find out who was advancing on him in the bathroom. A low wall separated him and whoever it was, and it became apparent that the man couldn't see him sitting on the floor when they paused and asked, again, "Harry?"

Closer now, Harry recognized that voice and relaxed slightly, realizing that it wasn't a professor or healer sent to fetch him in Sirius' stead. It was Remus, and Harry felt the delicate hoarseness of the man's voice wash over him in an entirely welcome, distracting wave. He hadn't seen the man since the battle; he had trusted Sirius when he'd told him that Remus was alive and all right, but actually hearing the man's voice was…relieving.

Clearing his throat again, which was still thick with emotion and fog from the shower, Harry replied softly, "Down here, Remus."

"Down…Harry, are you all right?"

A few quick, muffled footsteps later, and Remus had cleared the entrance to the showers, where he paused; Harry could see the edges of the man's shabby robes settling into the small pools of water still left on the shower floor and he briefly had the time to wonder if the man had noticed this at all before Remus had inhaled sharply; the sound echoed in the bathroom and Harry winced.

"I'm fine, I'm not hurt," he answered after a moment, drawing his limbs closer to himself as another draft blew across his damp skin, a few seconds after Remus' abrupt halt in the doorway. "I'm just…" Harry trailed off, not having a word to describe how he felt and what he was thinking. His few moments out of bed, in the Hospital Wing itself, had been overwhelming. He wanted to, needed, rest now, but he didn't think it'd be possible if he went back to his bed, where pain was sharp and sour in the air around him.

Was it selfish of him, he wondered, to want to avoid that hurt at all costs?

"Are you…sure?" Remus asked him, sounding vaguely surprised, making to step forward and noticing the water beneath his feet, it seemed, as he stopped, pulling something from his pocket. His wand, Harry realized after a second; the man murmured a soft word that Harry couldn't hear, and almost instantaneously, Harry felt the water on the floor and on the tile behind him dry.

His skin was still damp, though, and he was almost curious to see if he would be embarrassed if he stood now; the towels were on a shelf somewhere behind Remus, and he wondered if Sirius had placed his glasses and wand there for him, too. He hadn't asked when the man had backed out of the room, Harry's dirty clothes in hand; asking hadn't been on Harry's mind at that particular point in time. Cleaning himself had been. Scrubbing away the feel of dirt and magic and the blood had been in the forefront of his thoughts; Harry probably would have told Voldemort himself to wait until he was clean if the bastard had sprung up. The thought made Harry shudder again and he shifted slightly, feeling the dry tile stick to the clammy skin of his back and wincing as it tugged at the bandage on his shoulder.

"I…just needed to sit," Harry elaborated after another long moment had passed; it took a few moments for Remus' presence to actually register and when it did, Harry sighed softly, burying his face into his knees and murmuring, "I think I'm going into shock."

Remus didn't answer at first, and Harry heard the man's footsteps recede into the bathroom briefly. He didn't look up from his knees as the man walked away, and was quite startled to feel a sudden swathe of heat envelope him a minute or so after Remus disappeared into the other room. Squinting up, Harry was almost able to see the pale face before him, much closer than he expected the man to be; looking down, he noticed the towel Remus was pressing against him, bright red and fluffy. It was a huge thing, extending from his shoulders to the floor, where it pooled around his feet, and Harry wanted to laugh, because he recognized the towel as one from Grimmauld Place. Sirius must have brought it with him, or conjured it specifically. He felt a rush of affection for his godfather and leaned into the hands against his shoulders briefly, needing the support those hands were offering as the emotion made his head spin.

"A delayed reaction isn't uncommon, Harry, but I doubt, very much, that you're going into shock. Your injuries were extensive, but you're healing. We…" Remus trailed off after a moment, the unspoken 'We didn't expect you to,' hanging in the air suddenly and awkwardly.

His breath fanned over Harry in warm bursts, and Harry shivered again, the difference in temperature between his skin and the man's exhalations almost extreme. He hadn't realized how very cold he was until Remus had pressed the towel against him, and he drew the material against his body with one arm, dislodging the hands on his shoulders; Remus' fingers had been pressing into his wound, which ached from the cold, and the combination of sensations was too much.

"I didn't expect it, either," Harry admitted softly, looking down at Remus' chest, where a row of dully gleaming, out of focus buttons met his gaze. It was a thought that had been plaguing him for a while now; going into battle, he hadn't expected to come out. Admitting it openly hurt in a way that Harry couldn't quite name, and he felt shame and guilt burn in his stomach as he uttered the words, not quite knowing why.

"I…" Remus faltered on a reply, eventually letting the word trail into nothingness as he shifted around, hand reaching into his pocket and drawing out something Harry vaguely recognized as his glasses. He reached for them with his undamaged arm, and made several fumbling attempts at taking them from Remus' outstretched hand; Remus pressed the thin frames into Harry's trembling fingers and curled his own over them. He didn't say anything about Harry's shaking, didn't mention the time it took Harry to stand on his own, and accepted Harry's refusal of help with grace.

Harry was grateful for it; easing himself up from the tiled floor with difficulty, he couldn't meet Remus' eyes and wrapped the towel around his shivering body completely. It must have been charmed to stay warm, because he felt heat wrap around him and he was extremely thankful for it; standing beneath nearly freezing water for the better part of an hour couldn't have been good for him; not that he had minded, then, of course. Detaching himself from reality for a while had been something he'd been very keen on doing, and had been quite successful with.

Coming back to reality seemed to be a bit of a problem. Remus was quiet as Harry stood, slid his glasses on with one hand, and looked away as Harry dressed himself in the fresh clothes Sirius had left for him; things from his room at Grimmauld: his soft jeans, and an old t-shirt, his comfortable boxers and a sweatshirt of Sirius' that had seen better days but was comfortable and loose against the damaged skin of his back and shoulder.

Remus was unobtrusive and kind, and when Harry finished dressing and turned to face him, Harry was barely able to meet his eyes. Instead, he stared down at the man's hands, being held loosely at his sides, fingers long and pale against the dark blue fabric of his robes; his left wrist was bandaged, and when Harry reached for the man's hand, Remus extended it with a small smile.

"I'm quite all right, Harry," he told the younger man, as Harry examined the bandage, the bruise on his forearm, the small nicks and cuts on both of his palms. "I was, ah, unfortunately knocked out somewhere near the start of the battle, and was fortunate enough to not be hit by any stray curses. I twisted my wrist sometime during the evening, but I'm in good health."

Harry laughed ruefully, letting the man's hands fall away from his own and looked up to meet Remus' gaze. "You're pretty lucky. From what Sirius told me, I was hit with a few stray curses myself." He motioned to his shoulder and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling his wand, which Remus had handed over after he had dressed, settle reassuringly against his palm.

"So I've heard; and you weren't the only one, either. Several of the patients in the Hospital Wing were hit with several…stray pieces of magic, and I've been in the library with Hermione, trying to help her find out which ones. Madam Pomfrey can't be spared, so she's given us a list of symptoms, and we were left to puzzle them out." Holding the door to the Hospital Wing open for Harry, Remus turned back slightly to look at the young man, who was looking beyond the doorway, at the edge of a bed, with veiled eyes. Frowning, he asked, "Are you all right?"

Harry wasn't quite sure about how he wanted to word this, if he would sound selfish or self-centered if he told the man how, exactly, he felt about going back to the Hospital Wing. Rolling his sore shoulder slowly, Harry attempted to answer as well as he could.

"I, uh…it's too…quiet. It's too quiet in there," he finished, the explanation sounding rather lame to his ears, but when he looked up and met Remus' gaze, he found Remus nodding, holding the door open wider.

"I can take you up to the library, if you'd like. Sirius volunteered to help Hermione and I, and you're more than welcome to come up. He asked me to come down to check on you; I was supposed to see you safely back to bed, but I don't think Sirius would mind some company. Hermione isn't…much of a conversationalist just now; neither am I, I'm afraid."

"You seem to be doing just fine right now," Harry said, crossing in front of the man, going through the opened door. He tried his best to avoid looking to his right, towards the ward and the many patients within it and kept his focus on the imposing door to his left. Hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he wasn't quite sure if it was from the change in temperature, or as a result of people watching him, their eyes following him from their beds like they had before. He winced.

Turning his face and body away from the ward, placing it behind him, Harry glanced over his shoulder to see if Remus was following him, and found the man watching him a rather curious looking smile. Harry didn't remember ever seeing an expression quite like it on the man's face and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, when Remus shook his head, smile falling away as he replied lightly, "It's brief, I assure you."

He let his hand fall from the doorknob and started after Harry, only pausing long enough to nod at Madam Pomfrey, who was retiring into her dark office; she looked like she could sleep for a week if allowed to, and Harry wondered who was taking care of the patients to allow her some rest. He didn't dare look back, however, and started towards the door into the hall without waiting for Remus to catch up with him; his legs were shaking, and he knew the climb to the library was going to be a difficult one, but he had to get out of here, as soon as his damaged body could carry him away.

If Remus noticed his desperation to get out of the Hospital Wing, he didn't say anything as he joined Harry in the hall, and Harry was immensely grateful for that. Explaining himself would have been impossible.

Remus took him by the elbow, and they made their way slowly up to the library, where Sirius and Hermione where pouring over a stack of books, faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Sirius looked happy to see them and Hermione barely looked up, and as Remus helped him into one of the armchairs they'd conjured, Harry noticed that Remus was looking suddenly distant, gaze focused on the books on the table before him. He wondered what sort of symptoms the people in the Hospital Wing were displaying to warrant this sort of dedication, and suddenly realized that maybe he didn't want to know.

It was bound to be terrible; if Sirius was actually sitting still, in one place, and not complaining as he helped Hermione and Remus look through the grim looking books, it had to be. If Hermione, looking as exhausted as she was, was still plugging along, when her fiancé was down in the Hospital Wing…Harry's stomach turned, before he could finish the thought. Ron. He hadn't been to see Ron yet and only knew that his best friend had been injured extensively.

Was Ron one of the people displaying odd symptoms? Harry wrung his hands in his lap and thought over the question for a moment, debating on whether or not he really wanted to ask, when the desire to know overwhelmed the reservations he had. Clenching his fingers together, Harry swallowed, steeling himself for the answer.

"Is Ron…is he one of them? Did he…" Harry trailed off, stomach lurching. Hermione was looking up at him, palms pressed flat and shaking against the book before her, the bandages bright white against the yellowed pages. And Harry knew, from the set of her jaw, to the tears hanging on her lashes, that Ron was one of them; he moaned softly, pressing a shaking hand to his eyes to blot out the scene before him. This was too much.

How much were they expected to deal with? How much did they have to through before it was finally over?

"Ron is starting to display the symptoms that four other people starting developing the night after the battle," Remus was saying to him, voice steady but tired. Harry hadn't noticed how tired the man had sounded before; he hadn't realized how exhausted Remus looked when he'd come to get him. "We lost two during the course of the night, and three more, including Ron, are showing signs."

"Signs of what?" Harry found himself asking, pulling his fingers away from his eyes and focusing on his godfather, who was worrying his lip between his teeth, determinedly ignoring the conversation around him.

"Signs of…whatever this is. Poppy has given us a list of symptoms, as I've said, and they include things than range from fever to the loss of a person's magical signature, to the actual loss of magic itself. Whether one or more curses were crossed in the process, or whether the Death Eaters developed this one on their own, we don't know yet. But…"

"More symptoms are showing up," Hermione interrupted, voice raspy. "Ron's wounds aren't healing and his bones aren't mending, despite the treatments Madam Pomfrey keeps giving him. He's…failing." The word looked as though it hurt Hermione physically, and Harry didn't doubt that it did.

"It's like something's leeching the strength out of them," Sirius supplied, without looking up from his book. "We've tried looking for an outside source, something Moony thought to be pretty likely, but it didn't pan out."

"I'm still quite worried about that," Remus answered, running his fingers over the edge of the bandage on his wrist and peering thoughtfully down at the book before him. His graying honey colored hair fell into his eyes, and Harry resisted the urge to lean over and push it to the side. He wanted to see Remus' eyes, to know if anything were being held back from him.

"We thought, at first, that the headmaster was experiencing the same thing as the other four patients, but it appears, simply, that his injuries are…too much for his body to handle. He was drained of too much magic during the battle and sustaining the output of energy he managed to keep up, for as long as he did, did great damage to his body itself. His healing has been limited, and he hasn't responded to any of Poppy's treatments," Remus continued, still staring down at the book before him.

"I don't understand it at all," Hermione said, and Harry realized that she was now simply thinking out loud. She wasn't directing the statement towards anyone in particular, and she looked distant, occupied; her thoughts were visibly jumbled and Harry wished that his friend would allow herself the rest she so desperately needed. It looked like the night of the battle was the last time she'd had any time to herself, and that had been after Harry had fended her off, sending her to her bed beside Ron.

"How much time does Professor Dumbledore have?" Harry asked, turning back to Remus, who looked up and frowned, deeply.

"At the rate he's been declining? Three, four days. A week, if we're lucky. He's lending us whatever knowledge he can, for now, but it simply…hasn't been enough. We didn't have much intelligence from the inside; Severus didn't have anything to do with the development of any of the new spells we've seen, and since we…lost Draco, none of our spies have reached the position he held within the Death Eaters' ranks."

"Not like he would have been doing us any good alive," Sirius muttered, closing the large tome in front of him with a loud bang that echoed in Harry's ears and through the library itself. Harry half-expected Madam Pince to come out from the depths of the rows surrounding them to brandish a feather duster at them for the noise.

He was still peering into the row of books behind Sirius, when the man stood suddenly and pushed his chair back with a flourish. "I've had enough of this for now. I'm famished," he announced to the room at large, and Hermione scowled up at him, the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced than ever. "I'm off to the kitchens; anyone care to join me?"

Harry, who was still tired and sore from the effort of climbing the stairs to get here, began to shake his head, when Remus stood as well, gently shutting his book and reaching for Hermione's. She opened her mouth in obvious outrage when Remus interrupted her softly, "You should take a break, Hermione. It's important that you eat, and I'm sure Ronald would enjoy your company for a while." When Hermione began to protest, Remus continued, "You can come back up later; I'll come to fetch you. I promise."

Harry could see what Remus was trying to do and realized that he didn't have much of a choice in getting up to leave. If he wanted Hermione to eat, he would have to see to it that she did. He would also have to send her off to bed again, because he didn't plan on letting up until she agreed to take some time for herself. She had been going full throttle since well before the final battle, helping the Order gather and organize their information, and had been part of the effort to strengthen the wards on Hogwarts and its grounds. Voldemort had still managed to get through the former and onto the latter, but their efforts had paid off.

Voldemort was gone now, and Hermione needed rest. They all did, if he were being honest.

Pushing himself up and off of the chair with some difficulty, Harry accepted the arm that Sirius extended his way and walked slowly over to where Hermione was sitting, staring at Remus with a resigned look on her features that spoke of her reluctance to leave. Her eyes rose to meet his when he stopped in front of her, and when he extended a hand, he asked her softly, "Please?"

"Harry, I…"

"Can come back later. Remus said he'd come to get you, and you really do need to rest. You look like shit," he told her frankly, smiling a little at the broken laugh that spilled from her mouth as he said it.

"That's not a very nice thing to say to a woman, Harry," Hermione told him, accepting his hand and pushing away from her chair with several stiff movements; he saw her wince when she finally stood, and he smiled again, kissing the backs of her knuckles as he let her hand fall away.

"I've never been very good with women, I'm afraid," Harry said, ignoring Sirius' snort of laughter beside him. "But Sirius has the right idea and Remus is right, too. Working yourself into a stupor isn't going to do Ron, or any of the others, any good."

That seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, and Hermione nodded, reaching up to wipe a few stray tears from her eyes, explaining them away as she mumbled, "I'm so tired."

"First you need to eat, but then you can rest," Remus said as he took Hermione by the elbow, steering her towards the door as Sirius was steering Harry. "And I'll come to get you once I get a few hours of sleep, myself."

"You really don't have to," Hermione began to protest, but Remus shook his head and Harry interrupted him before he could answer the woman.

"I'd…like to come up, as well," Harry murmured, clutching briefly at the hand Sirius had on his arm as he almost stumbled. Although he wanted to avoid the suffering happening in the Hospital Wing at any and all costs, Harry also wanted to be of some help; he felt useless, lying in his bed as people died around him. He was relatively healthy, if not a bit exhausted, and he could be of help. He looked imploringly at Remus, who seemed about ready to tell him no, and smiled humbly. "Please?"

"I…" Remus paused, and sighed. "If it's all right with Sirius, we could use all the help we can get."

Harry looked to his godfather, who was staring back at him, visibly weighing the options and wincing as Harry fixed a look on him. "That's not fair, kiddo. You're still in pretty bad shape, and I don't want Madam Pomfrey on my heels for letting you roam the school."

"Tell her it was my idea. And I don't see what you can do to stop me, anyways. I want to help Hermione and Remus. I need to help Ron," he added, squeezing Sirius' hand again.

"Damn, Harry. I can't stop you, but you're still pretty hurt. You need rest as much as anyone else."

"It doesn't matter!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly feeling angry, hurt. "Defeating Voldemort won't mean anything if Ron dies because of some fucking spell that we couldn't figure out, if everyone else dies because of fucking Death Eaters!" he spat, stopping in the middle of the hall, ignoring the looks Hermione and Remus were giving him. Sirius was looking uncomfortable, and as suddenly as his anger came upon him, it left, leaving him feeling deflated and ashamed. "God, I'm sorry. I'm just…"

"I understand, Harry. Let's just…get you fed. We'll talk about it later; I don't care if you help Moony and Hermione." Sirius sounded wounded, but determined to hide it, and Harry wondered if he'd missed something. He looked to Remus, who shook his head, and Harry resolved to ask the man, later, if he knew what he had said to make Sirius sound that way.

"I…all right. I'm just…"

"I understand," Sirius repeated, taking him by the elbow again, easing him down the stairs one at a time.

Sighing, Harry left the conversation there, regretting his outburst, which had hurt his godfather and had left Remus and Hermione staring at him in…something. He couldn't quite call it pity, but it was close, and Harry wasn't sure if that bothered him or not. Focused entirely on making it down the stairs without tripping both Sirius and himself, Harry mentally stored the exchange for a later date and clung to the hand supporting him as he took the stairs slowly. Hermione was going almost as slowly as he was, both hands steadying her on the railing, and Remus was walking beside her, looking ready to catch her if she fell. It suddenly struck Harry that they must make an interesting sight, indeed, and he laughed softly as Sirius stopped on the step below him, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"It's…nothing. Just…it's not important." Harry explained.

"Are you sure?"

"I…yeah. I guess so." Nodding, Harry followed his godfather down the steps, into the Entrance Hall, where, helping Harry sit down on the steps, Sirius told he and Hermione to wait, while he procured a picnic basket. Remus went with him, and Hermione sat down beside him with a sigh. They exchanged looks, and silently agreed to leave things be for now.

They'd talk, in time.

x

_Feedback would be lovely._


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